


Don't Fall

by Harlecat



Series: Batman/Joker Fics [5]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Attempted suicide at one point, M/M, Multi, Though that is glossed over
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-20 02:32:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1493434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harlecat/pseuds/Harlecat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Never again. The Joker made a promise, and now the Joker is dead, replaced by a man who will never laugh that manic laugh, and who is not supposed to care about Batman. The Bat, on the other hand, isn't about to let him out of his sight, but when the two do collide again, what will happen?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1424965) by [slire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slire/pseuds/slire). 



> Hello, you lovely people! Don't worry, I'm still working on all my other stories, but I got into this idea today when I read The Heart by Slire. My Joker isn't New 52, but I liked a few of the ideas used, and this ended up happening. Other than that, I don't know how much the stories will have in common.

The night is cold, and dark, like nights in the city often are. A storm is shaking down the rooftops, and the asphalt roads are wet, pounded by raindrops.

There is lightning, followed by thunder, so loud it almost masks the laughter. There are a footsteps, and a man appears on the rooftop, shrieking and cackling. He throws his arms up in the air and whoops, spinning and jumping. Another chases after him, moving forward in a straight, unbroken line, not fazed by the man in front of him.

“Hey,” the runner shouts. _“Hey!_ Catch!” He throws something, and the chaser catches it, before throwing it away. It explodes in midair, filling the sky with smoke and damp confetti. The runner giggles and sprints away, laughing harder and harder.

 _“Get back here!”_ calls the chaser.

“Fudge you!” The runner jumps the space between two buildings, and then goes to cross the next, looking back behind him to see the chaser, and as he leaps, his foot slips in the rain, and rather than flying, he falls, down down _down,_ one story, two stories, three, four, five- he scrambles for a hold on a fire escape but slips again, and again and again, before two arms wrap around him, slowing his fall. But the chaser lets go, because he has to let himself _land_ , and the runner thuds onto the ground, back flat, breathing heavily, air knocked out of his lungs.

The chaser lands on the ground next to him, after an elegant drop, and says his name.

He giggles again, and it hurts, but he keeps on laughing, and opens his eyes. The chaser is looking at him.

 _“Hey,”_ he says again, laughing harder, in between jagged breaths.

“I think,” the chaser replies, “You’ve broken a rib.”

_“Heheheheh.”_

The chaser is next to him now. “If you keep laughing like that, you’ll puncture a lung.”

_“Hehehehahaheh.”_

The chaser crouches next to him, a frown pulling at his lips. “Stop laughing.”

_“Heh-”_

_“Stop.”_

The runner stops laughing. He can’t see the chaser’s eyes, but he knows that they’re looking at his, and he tilts his head, because he could stare at that _dumb_ mask for _eve_ r.

“Hey,” he says once more, and giggles.

“Stop-”

He grabs the chaser by the neck and pulls him down. A flicker of panic crosses his face, and the runner can tell he’s about to react, because _clearly_ this is a threat, the fight’s gonna start again soon, or-

Or not.

The runner kisses him, and it is hungry, soft at first, but it grows insistent. He never knew how _warm_ this man could be, and there’s something tugging at the bottom of his stomach. He can feel hands in his hair, and his eyes are closed, and-

And then it is gone, and his lips are burning. He tastes fire.

He opens his eyes and there is a crack, and then the fire is gone. Now, he can taste blood.

“You hit me,” he says, surprised. There is no answer. The other man is gone. The runner looks around, but the chaser is _gone,_ and now there is no one to run from. He rolls onto his side and takes the crushed flower from his breast pocket, wet and wrinkled, and the rain gets harder. It is already missing petals, so he knows his count will be off.

One petal comes off. “He loves me.” Another. “He loves me not.” And on it goes, until finally, the last one falls, and he whispers, _“He loves me,”_ and examines the dead stem, smiling.

_His count will be off._

He sits up, and there’s a stab in his chest, but he blames the so-called broken rib, because he’s gotten good at lying. He staggers down the street, and sees a misty light in the storm-shattered sky. His smile widens.

_I guess I’ll meet you halfway._

He makes it to the roof across from the police station, and then he stops, because there’s _people_ there, two of them, and they’re standing a _lot_ closer than the chaser and the _commissioner_ would.

The rain is slowing, and he can see that it is a _girl-_ person, one with curves, and a playful smile, and the chaser doesn’t hit _her._ No, he walks right up to her, and she flashes him a little smirk, and says something. The man chuckles- he laughed? He _laughed?_ \- and closes the distance between them.

“What do bats sing when it’s raining?” the woman asks, and the runner hears her, because the storm is slowing.

“What?” The chaser smiles.

 _“Raindrops keep falling on my feet,”_ she sang, and the chaser chuckled again. The runner frowns, and sits down, so that they won’t see him when the rain stops, peeking over the edge of the building.

The man hadn’t laughed at _his_ joke, earlier. _What do you call a bat in a belfry? A dingbat! Ha ha!_ Nope. Not even a _smile_. Why was her joke so much better? _Oh._ Maybe it was because it was raining, and there was rain in the joke?

Or maybe it didn’t have anything to do with how _good_ the joke was at _all_.

“You know,” the chaser says. “I’m aware that you stole the Isis cat statuette.”

The woman pouts. “Then why didn’t you _stop_ me, hon?”

“I was busy.”

“You’re _too_ busy. I don’t like it.”

They keep talking, getting closer and closer, and the man brushes a curl out of her eyes, and then they’re not talking at all, just _looking_.

“Selina…” says the man, and then there isn’t a space between them.

The runner clenches his fists and bites his lip, and once again, he tastes blood.

 _“Selina…”_ the man says again, drawing away. The runner feels a little flutter inside of his chest. _Oh-ho! Whatcha gonna tell her?_ “Before I came here… I was chasing the Joker…”

“That so?” the girl says, clearly not caring.

“And… well, and… how do I- he kissed me.”

The runner’s heart is racing now. _What is he going to tell her?_

The girl raises an eyebrow. “Gosh,” she says, voice sprayed with sarcasm. “What a shocker.”

_What’s that supposed to mean?_

“Did you kiss him back?” she goes on.

“I don’t know.”

That makes the girl laugh a little bit. “You are _really_ bad at _kissing_! What did you do?”

“I hit him.”

“Always the gentleman. And then?”

“I left. Came here.”

The woman raises an eyebrow. “Do I need to be _worried_?”

“No.”

“I’m not supposed to care, am I?”

“No.”

“Good, ‘cause I don’t. He was already a douche, now he’s just a douche that wants my boyfriend _._ ”

The runner winces.

“Selina… if he comes after you…”

There is a cracking sound, and the runner sees her whip in her hands. “I can take care of myself.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“And I don’t want _you_ to get hurt, but you still insist on the _costume._ ”

_“Catwoman…”_

“Batman…”

They lean closer again, and then the woman shouts, _“This statue is mine!”_ and leaps over onto the next roof, holding something tight against her chest.

“Selina!” the man yells, and goes after of her. They’re both laughing. They’re _playing._

The runner stays still.

Alone.

They don’t fall.

The rain is still there, slower and softer, and it looks like teardrops on his cheeks, and it feels like them too. But the raindrops aren’t as warm. Even the _tears_ aren’t warm enough. _He_ was the warmest.

There’s that stabbing in his chest again, and it’s pointless to pretend it’s a broken rib, because if it was hitting him _there,_ he’d be _dead dead dead._ Huh. Maybe he _should_ get his heart punctured. It had to hurt less.

He glanced down at the pavement below him, at the puddles, left over from the storm that was suddenly _gone._

This time, it wasn’t a fall.

_Never again._

He woke up the next morning, in a hospital, maybe it was an asylum but he didn’t know- he just knew he was a _fool._

Ha. He really should have seen that one coming.

He grabs the nurse by the sleeve and asks if _he_ came. Her eyes widen and she stammers out an answer he can’t understand.

“Did he find me? Did he bring me here? Did he save me? _Was it him?”_

“I, uh, see, I, um, well I, uh, I-”

 _Fool,_ the man thinks. _Fool!_

The Joker is a fool.


	2. Interlude

So, they gave him a new face, and a new name, and the man found himself looking the mirror, drawing a blank.

_Miles?_

A blank slate.

_Oliver?_

He was blank.

_Nathan?_

His first ideas had been _Joseph_ and _Jules,_ but then they told him he couldn’t pick a name that started with _J_ , and after that he couldn’t think of anything. So they’d shown him a website, one that gave you names, and he looked through it, through the recommendations it was giving for fans of _Jackson_ and _James_.

_Finn?_

Brown hair, high cheekbones, a pretty nose, skin that wasn’t _pale enough_ to be his, lips that weren’t red- even his eyes didn’t look as green.

Who was the man he was looking at?

_Leo?_

He scrolled down.

_Lucas?_

He liked that one. “Lucas,” he said. His voice didn’t sound right. The Joker would have said it different, _Luke, Lukey, Lukey-luke,_ but this was _Lucas._ He liked Leo, too.

He paused. “I really like this one,” he said, and glanced up at the mirror. He looked like he could be a this name. He sounded like he could be this person.

The doctor, who was sitting quietly in the corner, looked up from her desk. “No J names,” she reminded him.

“But I look the part.”

“No.”

“Okay,” he said quietly, and looked through the list again. “I can’t decide.”

She came over to look at the list. “Do you want me to-”

“Yes, please.”

She took the computer from him and frowned, before sitting down and filling out some papers. “I suppose… this one’s alright.”

“Really?”

She murmured something about it being the only good one. “You’re going to need a job…”

“Okay.”

“I have a friend. Orin Rylee. He’s a florist, he can get you in the business.”

“Sounds good.”

“You need a surname, to.”

“Kerr?”

_“No.”_

He thought for a moment, before suggesting one.  She wrote it down.

So a man who had nothing to do with crime, nothing to do with clowns, and nothing to do with Batman, was born.

The Joker was dead.


End file.
